The Case of Moomah's Moolah (A Richard Sherlock Whodunit)

by Jim Stevens

  I search far and wide, but there’s one photo I do not see: A family portrait. A photo with Moomah front and center, flanked by her offspring, the offspring’s offspring, and the offsprings’ offspring’s offspring. These photos are usually taken at family reunions where the promise of the distribution of trust fund checks insures a one hundred percent attendance record.

  As I wander down the hall, I count four different rooms with TV screens, all playing The Wizard of Oz.

  I can’t help but listen to Tiffany and Moomah’s conversation. Tiffany talks of Kennard, Schnooks, Elmhurst and Venus; while Moomah discusses ruby-red slippers, broomsticks, her sister from the East, and the Lollipop Guild.

  Lady Gaga’s Rah-rah-ah-ah-ah-ah, ga-ga-ooh-la-la blasts out of my pocket like a Gen-X air raid siren. I have to talk to Kelly about fooling around with my phone.

  “Hello.”

  It’s Oland. “Schnooks has risen.”

  CHAPTER 9

  A transit cop found Schnooks asleep on a Blue Line train. He thought she was a homeless person. When he couldn’t wake her up, he was sure she was a homeless person. The motorman had to help the transit cop carry her off the train and lay her on a bench at the Madison Street station. There Schnooks snored so loud she ruined business for the subway musician singing Neil Diamond’s Cracklin’ Rosie.

  She awoke in the ambulance on the way to Cook County. When she didn’t immediately ask for wine, somebody figured something was amiss and called the regular cops.

  “Did she have a bag over her head when they found her?” Care asks on the way to our apartment.

  “I didn’t ask.”

  “You should, Dad. You’re the detective.”

  “Thank you for reminding me.”

  At our humble apartment abode, we take turns in the shower and sit around. I read the mail, the girls watch TV, and complain about stuff. I don’t listen, and then they complain about me not listening to their complaints. Tiffany calls to inform me she will be on a yacht, tied up in the inlet facing the beach, just northwest of Navy Pier, where the order of the day is to drink too much and wave at the other people on other anchored yachts, who are also drinking too much.

  “Sounds like a swell time,” I tell her.

  “It is,” she informs me. “If you’re on the biggest one.”

  She makes me promise to call her when Schnooks returns to Kennard’s condo.

  “But how are you going to get off the boat to get there?” I ask.

  “It’s called a yacht.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Getting off is no big deal,” she says.

  I silently pray she’s referring to the boat/yacht.

  “I’ll call a water taxi.”

  I know of a real cheap Chinese restaurant in Evanston, so I take the girls there for dinner, then we walk to the lake, where the Evanston fireworks are set to explode at nine. After the Chicago spectacular last night, this show will be like the view of Chicagoland from the second floor of the Sears Tower. I tell them this is like life. You take what’s given you, especially when it’s free.

  Back at home the girls take the bedroom and I take the couch. They are asleep in minutes. Must have been the MSG in the egg rolls. I find an unused notebook and a pen. I open to the first page to write down my thoughts on the case thus far, but I can’t think of anything to write worth the ink in the pen. I lay back, rest my head on a small pillow, and drift off to sleep.

  In the middle of the night I awaken, find the notebook and scribble: “Withdrawal.”

  _____

  “What do you want to do today, girls?” I ask, as I serve up French toast.

  “Go shopping.”

  “Kelly…”

  “That’s a bad thing?”

  “How about you, Care?”

  “I want to ride Rascal.”

  Little Rascal is the girls’ horse; their mother was so kind to buy it with my money. When we lived as a family we couldn’t afford a horse, so how I can afford one now is an expensive mystery to me.

  “Not today,” I tell Care, “because I’m sending you to horse camp next week.”

  “We’re not going anywhere on vacation?” Care asks. “Why not?”

  “Ask the horse, or ask your mother,” I explain.

  “You can send Care to horse camp,” Kelly says. “I’d rather go to shopping camp.”

  “There’s no such thing.”

  “Yes, there is. People like Tiffany are the camp counselors.”

  “When I was a kid, we didn’t get to go to camp. We hung around and learned how to make our own good time.”

  “Sounds boring, Dad,” Care says.

  “At shopping camp, you get to go to a different mall every day,” Kelly says. “And there are people to help you try on clothes and carry all the stuff you bought so you don’t have to lug it around.”

  This is a hopeless conversation.

  The phone rings.

  “Hello.”

  It’s Tiffany.

  “Now?” I ask.

  I hang up the phone. “Get dressed, girls. We’re going to visit some money.”

  _____

  There’s no traffic on our way downtown. Most companies have the good sense to give the Friday after the Fourth of July off, since any employee worth his salt wouldn’t do a lick of work all day anyway. But banks are a different matter.

  Northern Trust is a Chicago institution. It’s where the wealthiest of the wealthy stash their cash. Walking onto the Wealth Management Team floor, I feel like a sapling in a redwood forest. Tiffany is with Moomah, sitting in the plush office of Ms. Anthea Andrews, an unbelievably attractive, mid-thirty-something woman, dressed in a charcoal black suit that a Bible belt conservative would love to wear, if they could afford it.

  “You remember Moomah?”

  “Yes, Tiffany,” I reply. “You think she remembers me?”

  “Ya never know.”

  Moomah does not come off the couch, but she does offer her hand to shake. She’s dressed today more like the ‘50’s, rather than yesterday’s 1910’s.

  “These are my children, Kelly and Care.”

  Not sure what to expect, they each shake hands with Moomah.

  “We did this yesterday,” Care says.

  “Which one of you is from the East and which one is from the West?” Moomah asks.

  Neither girl has a clue to the answer. “We’re not sure.”

  “I’d watch for falling houses if I were you,” Moomah warns them.

  “I’m Anthea Andrews,” the woman says, coming out from behind her massive desk. Standing, she looks even better than she did sitting down. “I’m the account manager for Mrs. Richmond.” She allows her hand to linger in mine for more time than necessary. It’s soft, smooth, and warm to the touch. “Shall we?” She asks, as she picks up a set of keys off her desk.

  Tiffany helps Moomah to her feet. “Shouldn’t this road be yellow?” Moomah asks, as she leads us out the door, through the hallway, and to the elevator bank at the end of the hall, as if she owned the place. Maybe she does for all I know.

  With the girls following behind, I manage to get to Ms. Andrew’s side and whisper, “Where are we going?”

  “Ms. Richmond likes to visit her money.”

  Moomah plus one is a group. Moomah plus the rest of us is a crowd, but we all squeeze into the elevator and proceed downward. When the doors open, we are hit by a blast of cold air. We step out into a small foyer.

  “Is this the Bat Cave?” Care asks.

  I don’t answer, because I’m not sure.

  A uniformed guard greets Moomah, “Good day, Ms. Richmond.”

  “In the vernacular of the peasantry, it’s gonna be a whopper,” Moomah tells the guard.

  The bank employees all chuckle. It’s their job.

  Elroy, the guard, punches a code into panel and a steel door swings open. “I didn’t know you’d be bringing so many guests.” He lifts the clipboard with silver pen attached to it, which he must carry all day,
and hands it to Anthea.

  “You have to sign in,” she informs us.

  Tiffany signs her name and passes the board to me. I sign.

  “Identification,” Elroy insists. I offer my driver’s license.

  “We don’t have any,” Kelly speaks for herself and her sister.

  “It’s okay,” Anthea tells Elroy and we proceed onward.

  I look up to see an overhead camera recording our entrance. I turn and see another camera behind us which will record our exit. I smile for each.

  The vault is open. Its thick, silver and gold door has enough cogs and tumblers to thwart any would-be lock picker or modern day Houdini.

  Moomah slips one of the keys on her massive ring into its rightful place in a corner of the vault. Anthea matches the action with a key of her own. Elroy helps Anthea pull out a steel drawer that’s twice as big as a bread basket for French bread. The drawer is empty.

  “Moomah used to keep a million dollars in cash handy,” Tiffany says. “She called it her silly stash.”

  “Is this a play date?” Anthea asks.

  “A what?” I ask.

  Anthea rephrases her question. “Does she want to play today?”

  “Definitely,” Tiffany says.

  Elroy retrieves a cart from the opposite corner of the vault and wheels it slowly to where Moomah stands. Anthea takes her key and Moomah’s key and inserts both into another huge safety deposit box. The door opens slowly. Voila΄

  Moomah inhales the aroma wafting out of the box.

  “Moomah likes the smell of wealth,” Tiffany whispers to me.

  “I wouldn’t know it,” I whisper in return.

  “Shall we?” Anthea, with Elroy and the loot close behind, leads us like a tour guide out of the vault and down a short hallway to a room labeled Richmond Suite.

  “Nice touch don’t you think? She asks as we enter a room with a large conference table, twelve chairs, and a built-in credenza in the rear. Once we are all inside, she stands at the door, as if a palace guard.

  Moomah goes right for chair at the head of the table and sits down. Elroy rolls the cart toward her, stops, and lifts the box onto the table right in front of her. Moomah licks her lips in anticipation, as if ready to dig into a decadent dessert. Leaving the cart, Elroy walks back in the direction he entered. Anthea opens the door to allow his exit, then closes and locks the door.

  Without having to be asked, Tiffany flips the latch on the steel box. “Okay Moomah,” she says, opening the box. “Go for it.”

  I’m flabbergasted. It’s like a scene from some pirate movie where Captain Kidd or Johnny Depp lifts the barrel-shaped lid of an extremely heavy wooden chest to reveal a treasure trove of sparkling booty. I see jewels, upon jewels, upon jewels. I also see necklaces, broaches, watches, pendants, pearls, bands, and bracelets. The stash must be two feet wide and a foot deep, all tangled and mashed in together like a huge bowl of sparkling spaghetti. The only thing missing are those shiny gold doubloons, “pieces of eight” in pirate vernacular.

  Care and Kelly, whose eyes are as wide as Frisbees, look on in disbelief.

  “How many of these does she have?” I ask Tiffany in another whisper.

  “I don’t know,” Tiffany says. “But you can never have enough.”

  Moomah reaches into the multi-million dollar grab bag and starts pulling out items, fondling each as if she had warm putty in her palms.

  “Can I help?” Tiffany asks, but she doesn’t wait for an answer. The two of them dip into the pile, pulling out and untangling items. “Is this what you want?” Tiffany asks, as she raises a diamond necklace for Moomah to see.

  Moomah ignores her.

  Tiffany offers a silver pendant for review. “How about this cheap old thing, Moomah?”

  “Child, you cut me to the quick.”

  That “cheap old thing” is probably worth ten times what I’m worth; no, make that a hundred times.

  Moomah pulls out one item after another. A shiny gold something that looks like it would weigh you down if you ever put it around your neck and a diamond bracelet whose reflection in bright sunlight would blind you instantly.

  I’m standing transfixed on the worth before me, when I hear a soft voice from behind me.

  “Isn’t it fun to watch somebody really enjoy their money?”

  I turn slightly, and Anthea continues her thought, “It’s tough to visit T-bills and Muni-bonds. This is so much more fun.”

  “She do this often?”

  “Maybe once a week,” Anthea says. “Some days she comes in and just sits with her money.”

  “That’s why she has her own room?”

  “We like to make our customers comfortable.”

  “So, let me ask you,” I say to the nice lady. “You let Kennard, carrying an empty suitcase, come in here with Moomah, load up a million dollars, and walk out?”

  “What am I supposed to do?”

  “For starters, ask for a withdrawal slip.”

  “The money is not coming out of her account,” she says. “I don’t have control of what she has in her safe deposit box.”

  “The woman has both her feet in the funny farm.”

  “I don’t make the rules.” Spoken like a true banker.

  “Are her kids listed on her account?”

  “Only Jamison. He’s the executor of the estate.”

  “And he knows about this?”

  “He does now.”

  “Does he know she invites the family in here when she wants to fondle the merchandise?”

  “I would assume so. It’s been going on for years,” Anthea says.

  Not good. Assume nothing. That’s my first rule of life.

  “I find it hard to believe you give guest passes to the inside of your vault.” I say to the knockout banker.

  “It’s her money and her items. She can do what she wants,” Anthea says.

  “Even if she’s singing ‘Ding dong, the witch is dead?’”

  “When you have the amount of money she has in here, you can do anything you want.”

  Tiffany reaches the bottom of the drawer and removes a felt-covered case, maybe six-by-six inches. “Wait ’til you see this,” she says to my kids. She smiles as she opens it slowly, but the smile vanishes from her face in an instant.

  “Mr. Sherlock,” Tiffany says. “We got a problem.”

  “I’ve got lots of problems. I don’t need another.”

  Tiffany turns the box over. It’s as empty as my IRA. “The necklace is gone,” she says.

  “What necklace?”

  “Moomah’s necklace.”

  “Where did it go?”

  “I don’t know,” Tiffany says. “That’s the problem.”

  Anthea comes closer to see. “Look through the rest of the items. Maybe it’s mixed in.”

  Tiffany does a quick search. “It’s not here.”

  “Could she have taken it home?” I ask.

  “Possibly,” Anthea says. “She could have worn it out and no one noticed.”

  “What’s so special about this item?” I ask.

  “It’s the crown jewel of Moomah’s collection,” Anthea tells us.

  “My daddy finds out about this, he’s going to burst a blood vessel,” Tiffany says.

  “You sure it’s not here?” I ask.

  “It’s the one piece you can’t miss,” Anthea says.

  “We have to find the necklace, and we have to find it soon,” Tiffany says with a hurried quiver in her voice. “Or, else.”

  “Or, else, what?”

  “Or, else I won’t be able to wear it to a wedding in September.” Tiffany starts to shake in a monetary Saint Vitus' dance.

  “Tiffany, calm down.”

  “This is like losing the Crown Jewels.”

  “Tiffany, are you sure about this?”

  “We’re talking millions. Millions!”

  I look over to Anthea. She nods her head in the affirmative. Kelly and Care continue to watch as Moomah fondles
her fortune. I’m not sure what to do, so I decide to do nothing. “We’re leaving.”

  “Leaving? We can’t leave now!” Tiffany exclaims.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Find the thief.”

  “Well, I doubt if he’s in here right now.”

  I pull my girls to the side and push them towards the door. “Dad,” Kelly says. “Can we stay? This is really fun.”

  “No.”

  Tiffany reluctantly pulls Moomah up from her jewels. “We got to go, Moomah.”

  “I’ll get those slippers if it’s the last thing I do,” Moomah cackles on her way out of the suite.

  We have to wait until Elroy returns, and we can all witness the booty going back to its locked sleeping quarters. Our entourage then makes its way upstairs.

  “I’m sorry we had to meet under such circumstances,” Anthea says to me. The woman has a pair of eyes that could captivate any male on the planet. “I assure you whatever help you may need Northern Trust will make any and all accommodations. Please do not hesitate to ask.”

  “I would appreciate it if you didn’t mention the necklace being missing at this time.”

  “Done.” She smiles flashing me her perfect teeth.

  I can’t help it. I shudder a zing of machismo; and it’s been a long time since I shuddered one of those.

  Outside the bank, we stand on the sidewalk waiting for Moomah’s limo to arrive. Tiffany is visibly upset. “This is not good, Mr. Sherlock.”

  “How much could one necklace be worth?”

  “More than me.”

  Now, that’s a lot of moolah.

  “This is awful. Not only because it’s gone, but because one of my family probably took it.”

  “Tiffany, don’t go jumping to conclusions.”

  “My family might be all jerks, but I don’t want any of them to be crooks.”

  “It happens, Tiffany.”

  “Well, it shouldn’t happen to me.”

  Moomah’s limo pulls up and the chauffeur jumps out to open the door. “Take me to the Emerald City,” she tells the driver.

  “Tiffany, not telling anyone about the necklace, goes for you too.”

  “Really?”

  “Don’t say a word to anyone. Or, text, tweet, e-mail, or shout out from the rooftops.”

  “Do you realize what you’re asking me to do?”